


Listless

by JesWithOneEss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform, Hogwarts, romione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JesWithOneEss/pseuds/JesWithOneEss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was terrified that once he let go, how would he ever be able to stop? This feeling, this loss, this relief and discovery and sadness and love… it was too much. He was sure he'd drown in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listless

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one day to celebrate Fanfiction Writers Appreciation Day (August 21st). I sat down and just started writing, and this is what came out: a downright angsty, depressed Ron. Sigh… 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter.

The level of energy required to put one foot in front of the other had never been as difficult as it was right now, at this very moment when he needed it the most. All he wanted to do was run, fast and far away from everyone and everything until there was nothing but him and some grass that he could uproot and pound his fists into dirt. He wanted to shout out into open air, scream until his lungs collapsed. Then he could use the hole he created in the earth to hide and swallow all of him at once; the tears he’d use to water the soil and grow new grass on top of his useless body and then maybe his mind would be at peace.

Maybe that is how Fred feels right now: at peace. He supposed in a day or two they’d have to bury his brother in the ground and Ron felt a pang of jealousy deep within his chest, and it jerked him forward from his seat at the table. He thrust his elbows in front of him to catch himself from doubling over and smacking his head into the thick wood.

And he contemplated doing just that, because the effort of running from the Great Hall and finding a spot to bury himself and finally… finally cry the tears that refused to fall, made him feel sick to his stomach. He couldn’t move; the lurch forward onto his elbows was involuntary at best and made Hermione jump next to him. He felt a hand touch his shoulder briefly and then was gone before he could flinch.

The sounds of moving benches, loud voices, soft whispers, crying whimpers and full on sobbing filled his ears. But nothing was as loud as the silence buzzing in the hollowness of his brain. He tried to grasp onto another thought besides running away, but the promise of darkness and solitude was too tempting. He needed to get the hell out of there. But he couldn’t.

“Hermione,” he managed to choke out from a scratchy throat that was dry from not talking or even swallowing. He needed to move, and prayed that she could read into him just saying her name what he wanted from her.

She didn’t speak, but he heard her take in a small sharp breath. She put her hand back on his shoulder and squeezed gently; a chill went own his spine, but she remained, gripping him tight with her small fingers wrapped around the seam of his filthy t-shirt that was damp with sweat and torn from a day of dodging spells and falling debris…

He felt her move beside him, but didn’t dare look over. When she stood she used her hand to tug on his shoulder, then another to pull him back until he had no choice but to swing his legs over the side of the bench and then he was on his feet. His eyes were on his trainers, but he could hear Hermione sniffling beside him as she locked her arms around his, clasping his hand in both of hers.

She gave him the energy to follow, to fall into a slow walk that felt like he was trudging through mud. He wondered how he could have ever claimed to feel sad before today. How could he ever have known what it would feel like until it happened? How could he have known that his reaction would be to become a deadened sack of skin with insides that were a turmoil of exploding emotions, unable to escape?

He thought briefly of leaving his family, then tried to remember when he saw Harry last. But Hermione was so damn close and breathing hard against his shoulder, her head replacing her hand as she leaned on him. And he realized that maybe he was serving as some sort of support for her, and he felt sorry and ashamed for being so weak and despondent.

But there was nothing he could do but pull from her what she was willing to give, which was an opportunity to escape, at least the Great Hall, and at least for the moment. That was all he needed, he told himself, just a moment- a goddamn moment to… do what? Cry? In front of Hermione? Would he be able to? Did he want to?

They were finally out in the corridor and then there were dozens of stairs spread out before them, like a waterfall of stone taunting him with an almost impassable trek that would otherwise just be the same set of stairs he’d walked and ran up and down for years, to and from classes and meals. But now there were parts of it that were broken, missing and caved in, all of it covered in a thick layer of dust and stone fragments.

Hermione moved to steer him away, but he didn’t want to venture any further into the castle. He thought about the dark corridors with even more damage to its walls and having to step over the wreckage, and to where? There was no place in the castle he wanted to be. His only thought since he sat at the table in the Great Hall was to be outside. He needed air before his lungs threatened to implode from lack of it.

He stood stock still, staring down past the stairs to the giant double doors that stood wide open to the outdoors. He wasn’t sure the amount of damage would be any better out there, but there was grass and oxygen and far fewer people.

So he tugged her by the hands that were still wrapped around his and nodded his head toward the doors. She understood; taking her wand out of her back pocket, she pointed it downwards, muttering and sweeping her arm to levitate and remove the worst of it, making a path. Ron squeezed her hand, thanking her, and they made their way down and then out.

It was evening on the final day of the battle. The sun was low in the sky, just about to set, and was throwing its last rays into the furthest sky, its light blurry and the usual vibrant colors of a sunset muted through the fog of dust that covered everything yet also stained the air, a reminder of what had taken place that day. There were holes in the ground where spells had ripped through; blood, dried and dark, patterned what used to be black asphalt that led up to the castle doors. The bodies were already gone, taken inside or discarded, and Ron was grateful, and disgusted, and angry.

He must have been shaking and staring for Hermione pushed against his side, hard enough to make him almost trip over his own feet. He finally looked at her: frizzy strands of hair that had come loose from her plait danced around her head and face, her tear stained cheeks, her quivering lip that was chapped and chewed on, her glassy eyes pleading with him to keep moving. His chest caved in and he had to force air into his lungs to keep from fainting. Looking at her made it all too real, that it really happened: the victory and the pain all at once, all in one day.

He felt the hard lump start to form in his throat, the burning behind his eyes, the tightness in his chest. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He thought he wanted release, to get rid of all the bottled up emotions that were soaring violently inside of him, banging around like a swarm of angry wasps. But he fought it because he was suddenly terrified that once he let go, how would he ever be able to stop? This feeling, this loss, this relief and discovery and sadness and love… it was too much. He was sure he’d drown in it.

He found himself backing away from Hermione and that face and hair and body that was covered in about the same amount of dirt and rips as his, and he hated himself. Why did he always do this? He watched her face crumble as he pulled further away because once again he was failing her, causing her pain. But the paralyzing element that had prevented him from taking that first step was now replaced by the desire and ability to flee. He felt it in his knees; his legs were starting to tremble from the need to run and run and run…

He gave her an apologetic look and dropped her hand. She stood before him, shocked and tired and her lip started to quiver once more, and he couldn’t let her be there when he unraveled. The worst part of him thought she didn’t need him. She had made a mistake when she kissed him, he was sure of it. He was weak, useless and he was reminded of the last time he left her, how disappointed she was. She was foolish to trust him again, and all the work he put into gaining that trust made him feel like a fraud.

He tried telling himself it wasn’t too late. His feet hadn’t betrayed him yet. He was still within arm’s reach, but when she didn’t say anything he backed away slowly, and then when he couldn’t take it anymore he turned and took a step in the direction of the Quidditch pitch that, from the distance, looked to be untouched.

“Don’t you dare, Ronald Weasley!”

Her voice was high-pitched, shrill and shaking, but full of conviction and warning. He skidded to a stop and waited, breathing hard and fast, now convinced he was about to lose his shit right there in front of the castle and in front of Hermione. She walked past him, turning only once to glance back with a furious expression and a nod of her head, beckoning him to follow. He stared at her plait bouncing on her striped top and noticed a rip along her left shoulder blade, a cut along her skin, underneath a white bra strap. He gulped down the conflicting feelings and jogged to catch up.

When he slipped his hand into hers he was relieved when she didn’t pull away. And before he could say anything she intertwined her fingers between his and pulled him closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said quietly, a stark contrast to the tone of her last words. “But don’t ever… ever walk away from me again.” She took a deep breath and he glanced over at her. She caught his eye and said, “I need to make that very clear. Never again. Got it?”

He swallowed thickly and, still staring at her profile, nodded his head and squeezed her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and finished the sentence in his head: _for trying to leave again, for leaving before, for not being the man you need right now, for everything you deserve that I can’t give you._ Hermione sighed and shook her head, but didn’t reply, so Ron let it go. He didn’t think he could handle that conversation right now…

They were still too far away from where he knew she wanted to take him, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He started walking faster, pulling her along behind him until she had to jog to catch up. And then they were running. He felt the air rushing past him, pushing his hair away from his face and everything around him blurred and became a mass of colors and shapes. Hermione stood out in front of all of it, keeping his pace so her profile and body remained constant and unmoving while wisps of hair flew around her head. He gripped her hand as they ran faster, and when they finally reached the nearest entrance to the pitch they barreled through the opening, coming out the other side into the field, only stopping when they reached the center.

Panting and gasping for breath they stood with their hands still held tight, the other on their knees, bent over. Suddenly she yanked her hand out of his grasp and threw her arms around his neck and her face was buried in it, her hair tickling his nose and her chest heaving against his. He reacted immediately, wrapping his arms tight around her waist, spreading his large hands across her back, careful to avoid the rip in her shirt that revealed the cut he saw earlier. Her body was small compared to his and he had to crouch to keep her flush to his body because it felt so damn good to hold her like this.

She hung off of him, pulling him down until he was forced to his knees and she to hers. She made a muffled sobbing sort of sound against his neck and he felt his shirt become wet from her tears. She whispered his name and that was the key that unlocked the floodgates. Then he was crying- crying so suddenly and with such force that he was unable to prevent his hands from gathering the back of her shirt in his hands and pulling her closer as he rained tears onto her shoulder and in her hair.

He shook in her arms that flexed around his shoulders; her hands rubbed up and down his back, causing him to go limp. She had to sit back on her bum in the grass and pull him into her, trying desperately to keep him from falling, despite the fact that he was pulling her shirt down, his hands unable to let go. The swarm of wasps emptied from his head out onto the front of her shirt, the turmoil of emotions released through snot and tears and onto Hermione, and she didn’t mind. When he tried to sit up she’d pull him back and another wave of wrenching sobs flew from his heart and mouth.

She shushed and hummed as her fingers filtered through his strands of dirty hair, pressing his wet face to her chest. He imagined what he must look like, sprawled out on the grass, bent at a weird angle with his face on Hermione, wetting her with his tears and bogies, and he felt a rush of love and gratitude for this girl who was taking it all and letting him finally react, away from everyone and the destruction. He was so scared to let her see him like this, but now he knew he’d likely actually dig a hole and crawl into it if she were to leave. And he wondered if that was how she felt, why she demanded he never leave again, and another heady flow of affection overcame him.

After some time, after the sun had already set, and after the sky had turned to black, Ron’s spillage of grief was reduced to shuddering breaths and hiccups. His head was still on Hermione’s chest, held there by her hands in his hair and neck, cradling him. He was exhausted and drained, but alive and breathing.

He opened his hands, knuckles snapping from keeping them so tightly closed for so long. He sniffed and was suddenly aware that his cheek was touching skin; his mouth was open and breathing heat onto a pillow of flesh that was rising and falling underneath his face. He licked his chapped lips and heard a tiny gasp as his tongue flicked over salty tears and something else…

He opened his eyes to reveal darkness all around them, and he wondered how long they sat out here; how long did he have his face practically buried between Hermione’s breasts, her shirt pulled down by his fists…?

He sat up quickly, making Hermione off balance and almost topple them both over. She reached out to grab his arm to keep them both steady.

“Alright?” she asked, and he stared, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He nodded, but realizing she probably couldn’t see him he cleared his throat.

“Yeah… sorry, about your shirt and… well…” He pulled the hem of his own shirt up to wipe his face.

“Please,” Hermione said airly and passed her hand over his shoulder then down his arm. “Don’t worry about it. It’s all torn and filthy anyway.” She took out her wand and lit it, giving them enough light to see each other. She looked just as drained as he did, and he didn’t know what to say.

“I saw your back,” he blurted out, sitting on his knees. She squinted at him then turned her head as if to try and see her own back. “Turn around,” he said and when her back was to him he saw the gash underneath the bra strap and his breath caught in his throat. It probably looks worse than it is, if she didn’t even know it was there. He reached out and ran a finger gently on top of it and she instantly hissed, arching her back away from his touch.

“Fuck, sorry,” he gasped and grabbed for his wand. “I… I can’t remember any healing spells. God, I’m such shit at this. I can’t-“

“Try Episkey,” she said over her shoulder. “It doesn’t feel serious so that should help.”

“Okay,” Ron said and took a deep breath. He was so tired and could easily fall asleep where he sat, but he mustered up the remainder of his energy and concentration, focusing on this one task. He could at least do this one thing for her.

With both hands he took the hem of her shirt and pulled it up slowly until her entire back was exposed. If she had one cut she could have more and he didn’t want to miss any other wounds. She held the shirt in her hands at her shoulders so he let go and used her lit wand to scan her back. He bit his lip, ignoring the fact that this was the most of Hermione’s skin he had ever seen at one time. And then there was the bra, and if he turned his head just slightly to the left or right he could see the side of her breasts covered in white bra…

“Are there more?” her voice was shaking and he wasn’t sure if it was from his staring or fear of having more injuries.

“No, just the one, thank God,” he said, averting his eyes back to her shoulder blade that had the cut. “I just have to move this,” he muttered. His finger hooked under the strap, pulling it away from her back and then over her shoulder away from the wound. Hermione’s breaths were coming in and out more quickly and he worried he was doing something wrong.

“Alright?”

“Yes! I mean, yeah, keep going.”

With her lit wand in one hand aimed at her back he gripped his wand in the other. With a shaky hand he hovered over the cut and muttered the spell, watching as it turned from red and raw to the pink of new skin. He put his wand down and placed his palm down on top of it, feeling her cool skin. She jumped at the touch and when he pulled back she shook her head and told him it was okay.

He replaced his hand, watching with great interest as his fingers spread apart and was momentarily taken away from all the bullshit that happened today because his hand was on her back, and his cheek had already felt the tops of her breasts… and she had kissed him. Earlier, before the battle got too heated, before Fred died, before all of it… she had kissed him.

He dropped his hand and sat back on his heels, his mind now a tangle of grief and longing, sadness and the overwhelming desire to grab Hermione and finally actually taste her.

“Ron?”

She dropped her shirt and turned to face him, worry spread out across her entire face. But when he looked up to meet her eyes he saw hers widen. She must have read his expression as he was too tired to hide anything after today.

“Ron?” And there was an entirely different tone to her voice when she said his name, unlike any other time in their history together. It went through his veins and straight to his heart and into his groin.

He leaned over with one hand in the cold grass and slipped the other hand behind her neck into her hair. She was practically panting as she stared, wide-eyed, and then licked her lips when he inched closer. He stopped, hesitating, and she nodded then closed her eyes. He saw her swallow, her delicate neck bobbing up and down, and for the first time in days he felt his lip curl into a half smile.

Then he kissed her, softly at first, then more firmly. When he opened his mouth to envelop her bottom lip between both of his she parted her lips and they sighed together, their bodies melting into each other with that one breath. Then her hands were on the back of his neck, and she was pulling him in. He closed his eyes and all of his energy and remaining good thoughts went into kissing her, into tasting her lips with his tongue, begging her to let him in. And when she did there was a hunger like nothing else.

They held one another’s necks, thumbs pressed into cheeks, as tongues swirled and danced together, mouths parted and closed as they moved their heads from side to side trying to find a different angle for this new thing they were now doing.

They pulled away for a second to catch their breath, but came back with a new passion and energy that he had no idea where they found it. His brother has just died. Lupin and Tonks and others were dead, yet here they were kissing and starting something so new and wonderful. His hands moved down her sides, to her back and underneath her shirt to feel her back again. She sniffed hard and stood on her knees, kissing him harder, gripping him tighter around his neck.

His fingers grazed the clasp of her bra and he pulled at it, letting it go with a snap, making Hermione twitch in his arms. He groaned and moved his mouth over her jaw, feeling drunk on her, on being this close to her. How was it possible that, after years of friendship, he never knew she would feel like this? How daft was he to not realize that this feeling of bliss was right there all along? How…?

“Ron…”

He licked her neck and brought his hands to her stomach, rubbing them over her flat tummy and the indent of her navel. He wanted to feel every part of her that had been hidden from him before, that he was too stupid to never have until now.

“Ron, please,” she whispered and he realized she was trying to pull away. He released her reluctantly and held onto her shoulders. They stared at each other, both trying to catch their breaths.

 “Sorry,” he said and licked his lips, still tasting the inside of her mouth, her neck… “Sorry,” he shook his head. “Wow.”

She palmed his cheek and he saw her smiling, and it was the best thing he’d ever seen his life. “I know,” she said and leaned in to kiss him once more. He almost tried to continue it, but it was the kind of kiss that was a promise for more, but later. “We should head back, don’t you think?” She looked like she hated saying it, but he knew she was right.

He let his hands drop and stood up on shaky legs. When Hermione was on her feet he handed her wand back to her and lit his own. They stood there in the middle of the Quidditch pitch and it felt like he was on the other side of something that used to be terrifying and so daunting he didn’t think he’d ever be able to pass through- that he’d be stuck in that immobile, paralyzing, listless state.

But now, looking at Hermione something passed between them: an understanding that they were officially in this together, this life that won’t be easy to navigate after the hell they’ve been through. But it was no longer terrifying. And when she took his hand in hers again, lacing her fingers through his and pulling him back toward the exit of the pitch and eventually back to the ruined castle filled with heartache and reminders that will make his blood boil, he was able to move. He walked willingly and without hesitation, because wherever Hermione was he was there too and they’d move on together.


End file.
